


Misadventures in Corporeal Existence

by meatandpotatoes (metaandpotatoes)



Series: The Germaphobe and the Asshole [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Miya Atsumu: Human Disaster, Mutual Masturbation, Mysophobia, Voyeurism, exposure therapy?, germaphobe-to-lovers, idiots learning how to navigate bodies, navigating anxieties and fears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22850566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metaandpotatoes/pseuds/meatandpotatoes
Summary: One day, Sakusa Kiyoomi waltzes into Atsumu’s life and tells him: Don’t touch me. Everything's fine until Atsumu realizes—he doesn’t want to touch Omi just out of spite. He wants to make Omi want to touch him, too.Or, two giant assholes try to convince each other that, for once, they are trying not to be exactly that.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: The Germaphobe and the Asshole [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642912
Comments: 49
Kudos: 444





	1. “I want to see you naked.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will become more relevant as this goes on.
> 
> Obligatory note about my recommendations for real-life sex (beyond being safe, safe-worded, and consensual):
> 
> 1\. Talk with each other  
> 2\. Laugh with each other  
> 3\. Don’t take sex too seriously, but take each other seriously*  
> 4\. Drink water  
> *This is difficult.

Miya Atsumu knows that driving someone crazy takes time and patience and smarts. Being a twin is a crash course in the art: Years spent watching someone brush their teeth every morning—before they put in their contacts and after they wash their face and in a way that involves shoving the toothbrush halfway down their throat first because _it makes your breath smell better, you fucking ogre,_ or some shit like that—is the only way to get the information needed to swap a toothpaste tube for a wasabi tube at the exact moment when the deception will not only go unseen, but also unnoticed. Sure, Atsumu could’ve just filled the toothpaste tube itself with the stuff—but where’s the fun in tricking someone in an unobvious way? The ratio of effort to payoff is important, too. The less work you have to put into making someone gag and cough and curse you out ‘til their voice goes raw first thing in the morning, the more hilarious the end result. 

Or take the time—the months, really—that Atsumu convinced Osamu he could bench twice his weight, only for him to fail disastrously when he went to demonstrate to the entire team. Samu never lived that one down. Atsumu won’t let him.

All of this is to say—Miya Atsumu knows what it takes to drive someone crazy, and he’s always found that the effort is worth the reward. He’s lost friendships, sure, gotten punched a few times, even had natto smashed all over his face by a girl, but the superiority—the utter humiliation of another human in the face of his indomitable wit and stubbornness and brain—the knowledge that they see the toothpaste or barbell or hair gel or dye and remember his face—nothing beats that.

Nothing beats that until one Sakusa Kiyoomi waltzes into Atsumu’s life and tells him: Don’t touch me. Nothing beats that until Atsumu realizes—he doesn’t want to touch Omi just out of spite. He wants to make Omi want to touch him, too.

🤷🤷🤷

Good game, good game—the mantra drives a stake into Atsumu’s brain, all this pretending at sportsmanship just to convince a team they crushed that maybe it wasn’t so bad. Atsumu knows better. It was that bad, _Tobio_. Your setting sucked. Your spikers sucked. Not so scary without Hoshiumi, eh? Not so scary against a guy with rubber for wrist joints, puppeteered by a good-lookin' genius who ain’t afraid to be infinitely nastier than you, eh? Who cares if Omi insists on standing a mile away at any given moment or that he still flinches at the mere thought of receiving a back pat after a spike. The point is, fuck you, Kageyama. Take that, you mama’s boy, pew—pew—pew—the Inarizaki empire strikes back only instead of a Death Star they’ve got a germaphobe who never smiles—

“Miya.”

Fuck. It’s unlikely that Akaashi’s a mind-reader, but if anyone could be… Atsumu smiles, a big shit-eating grin, one that he hopes says, please keep your hands and feet away from the ride at all times, this theme park is not for children or parents or anyone really, because _you can’t take it_. But of course, Akaashi’s not afraid. He’d probably whip his dick out in a knife parade.

“What can I do ya for, ‘Kaashi?” 

In the periphery of Atsumu’s vision, Bokuto Koutarou—talking to Hinata Shouyou in what cannot be any understandable language—flinches. If Akaashi notices, he doesn’t let on, just stays serenely tucked behind his air of indifference and curtain of perfectly tousled hair.

“Bokuto is afraid to ask,” Akaashi says. “Are you coming out tonight?”

“What’s he got to be afraid of?”

“He says you’ve seemed...on edge.”

In the periphery of Atsumu’s vision, Bokuto Koutarou flinches again.

“And since when do we trust Bo’s capacity for perception?”

“You do realize Bokuto has kept a partner for three years." And Atsumu thinks: Don't you dare, you beautiful asshole, but of course, Akaashi does— "Unlike some people.”

“Look, I’m still not unconvinced he’s holdin’ you hostage somehow.”

Akaashi does not take the bait. Akaashi never— _never_ —takes the bait, no matter how many layers of linguistic subterfuge Atsumu employs. This does not send Atsumu into some spiral approximating rage. Atsumu does not experience emotions like spirals approximating rage.

“Exhibit A that you are feeling on edge,” Akaashi begins. “You didn’t hit a serve in all night.”

Atsumu hears someone scoff. That scoff sounds suspiciously like Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

“Exhibit B: You look like you’ve been shocked any time someone moves toward you.”

Akaashi takes a step forward, and if Atsumu flinches back, he’s not going to admit it.

“Alright, alright, maybe I ain’t been sleeping so good.”

“Does that also explain why you laughed in Kageyama’s face every time Sakusa scored a point?”  
  
“I ain’t petty, s’just my spiker’s better than yours,” Atsumu argues in Kageyama’s general direction. This, he realizes too late, is not the accusation.

No one responds.

🤷🤷🤷

As usual after a Jackals-Adlers game, Atsumu avoids the fray (read: Akaashi’s refusal to cut him some slack) and insists on going home with Omi. Not in a sexual way. That’ll be the day Atsumu dies. Not that he would mind. Maybe. Or maybe he’d rather die than engage in whatever weird shit that would entail—either way, there would be dying, and today he prefers to stay alive.

Case in point: As he steps out of the shower required of anyone visiting Omi’s apartment beyond the genkan, he painstakingly makes sure his body and towel avoid the toilet. If Omi so much as suspects Atsumu has touched something unseemly, he’ll be told to shower again or leave, and there are only so many times a guy can scrub his skin to death in the span of an hour. So he contorts himself, also making sure not to touch the wall, even though Atsumu is fairly confident Omi wipes it down three times a week in addition to the housecleaning service that comes, and dries off and dresses safely in front of the sink. 

In the beginning, Atsumu would grumble. One would think that a patented germaphobe would go out of their way to secure an apartment with a separate WC, but apparently Omi values the filtering effect a toilet immediately outside his bath room has on his friendships more. Atsumu didn’t realize that benefit, at first. He bitched at Omi about self-inflicted wounds. But spend enough time with someone—the court, the convenience store, the nights avoiding Akaashi’s goddamn incisive gaze over beers at the izakaya—and you start to get what makes them tick. 

Still. Omi has a talent for testing the limits of Atsumu’s capacity for mutual understanding. For example—

“You didn’t let your towel touch the toilet, did you?” Omi demands upon Atsumu’s exit into the living space. 

Atsumu has half a mind to throw his towel right in Omi's face. Instead, he shoves it into one of the many plastic bags that inevitably gets used upon Atsumu's entrance into Omi's life.

“What d’you think I am, a monster?”

“At best.”

Atsumu takes his place at the far end of the couch. It’s a testament to his capacity to learn that he doesn’t just crack open the beer in front of him, but his patience for Omi’s insistence on avoiding cross contamination is tested when he can’t find the disinfecting wipes.

“I already wiped down your beer,” Omi mutters.

“You coulda said that to begin with,” Atsumu snipes back.

“You’re welcome.”

They watch TV in silence and engage in the usual schtick: Atsumu talks back at the idiotic game show contestants, Omi tolerates his existence without murdering him, which, really, is a continual surprise. The first time Omi let Atsumu tail him home was nothing less than an out-of-body experience, if only because Atsumu had not even let himself dream that Omi let anyone into his apartment, much less his cretinous teammates. He didn’t want to be invited in for any slanderous reason—his fascination with Omi had really started as nothing more than a scientific interest. How does a guy who’s afraid of germs eat? Does he clean his bathroom every day? Does he stockpile those one-time-use socks you get in the shoe store? 

After that first night over, Atsumu worried for a solid week that maybe he was the only one of the Jackals who hadn’t yet had the privilege, but Shouyou insisted that he’d misheard when Atsumu tried to nonchalantly explain what happened— _Omi’s apartment is nice, y’know?_ —and then Atsumu realized he probably shouldn’t say anything at all ever again, lest he become a dead body under a bridge. If anyone could kill someone and leave no trace, it’d be Omi. And, as has been established, Atsumu would really prefer to stay alive.

You know, no—Akaashi could definitely kill someone, too. Omi’d probably even recruit him. Atsumu sinks into the couch, stares up at the ceiling, possibly even pales at the thought. He’d never worried that Osamu was gonna snap and off him. This is a whole new world. He’s in really deep shit. One fuck up and—goddamn that Akaashi, actin’ like he has the eyes of god—

“‘Kaashi’s so nasty,” Atsumu mutters. 

“You’ve already said.”

Atsumu jolts. He has completely forgotten where he is: Less than a meter away from Sakusa Kiyoomi on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s couch in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s apartment. Omi isn’t looking at the TV anymore. He’s looking right at Atsumu, with a frown on his face that screams _you fucking idiot were you just going to fall asleep and drool on my couch_. Who cares if the fabric is antimicrobial.

“Why does he hafta be right all the time?”

“So you are feeling tense.”

“I didn’t say that.”

They lapse into silence again, but Omi doesn’t go back to watching the TV, and Atsumu wonders if he’s been watching at all, because Omi hasn’t been sniping at Atsumu to stop with the jibes, of course they’re idiots, they signed up to be on a game show, can you please adjust your expectations? Atsumu refuses to lower his expectations. Even for people trying to fit their head through a tube for a lifetime supply of onigiri. But wait—what wouldn’t Atsumu do for a lifetime supply of delicious rice balls?

“Miya.”

Stick his dick in a box?

“Miya.”

Stick his hand in a tank full of sharks.

“Miya.”

“Huh?” Atsumu has totally been listening. This entire time.

“I want to see you naked.”

Maybe he wouldn’t touch one Sakusa Kiyo—wait.

“Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“Y’can’t just go changing topics and expect me to follow.”

“I said: I want to see you naked.”

Omi looks like he’s being asked to choose between being pushed into a sewage tank or a garbage bin.

“Why d’you gotta look so miserable both times you say it?”

“So you did hear me.”

“I mean, some people would pay for the privilege, y’know.”

“I’m not paying you.”

“Fine, fine, you drive a hard bargain, but I’ll concede.”

And that’s how Atsumu winds up standing completely clothed in Omi’s bedroom, which, after three months of coming over to Omi’s apartment on a semi-regular basis, he has yet to see. It is...uninspiring, in a word. There is a bed. There is a cabinet, the contents obscured by a door. There is a foam roller wrapped in what looks to be plastic covering. Thanks to Omi coming in from the kitchen, there is now also a futon, a blanket and two plastic bags.

“Don’t you have like...hobbies?" Atsumu gripes even though he himself has exactly zero of his own. "There’s nothing in here. It's a prison cell.”

“I prefer clean lines and bare surfaces.”

Atsumu frowns. “Does that mean I shoulda shaved?”

Omi does not laugh. This is not surprising. It still hurts.

“If we’re going to do this, you have to agree to undress exactly how I say.”

“Y’mean I’m not just gonna take off my clothes like a normal person and stand here?”

“You either agree or go home.”

Atsumu watches Omi who, despite the warmth, wears not one but two layers of clothes. Omi, who is probably deeply uncomfortable not wearing a mask when Atsumu is in his apartment. Omi, who rushes through changing and showering and leaving so well that Atsumu does not think he has seen him shirtless, much less fully unclothed. The pieces come together, and Atsumu has a thought.

“You’ve seen other people naked before haven’cha?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“All’m tryin’a say is it’s not that weird to see me naked outside the gym!” 

“It is weird,” Omi says. Then: “It’s you.”

“Omi!" Atsumu does his best to look hurt, even if he knows Omi would look a drowning child in the eyes and refuse to reach out a hand to save them without first taking a moment to spritz them with hand sanitizer. "You can’t just say things like that to a guy when he’s ‘bout t’undress in fronta you!”

“You have enough ego to survive it.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll follow your damn instructions.”

Still, Omi hesitates. Atsumu can recognize it. There’s no jerk to his body. No aborted action. No sharp inhale of breath. Omi simply looks at what is happening—Atsumu, standing here—and looks at the actor—Atsumu, standing here—and calculates. Omi calculates the time it would take for Atsumu to cross the space between them. Omi calculates the length of his arm, the reach of his hand. Omi calculates the way Atsumu’s clothes hang from his body, the unexpected behavior of fabric under uncareful fingers. Omi sees the contingencies. The exit plans. Omi anticipates the damage, how to mitigate the fallout.

“I ain’t gonna hurt ya y’know,” Atsumu tries. He wants the words to come out soft. They come out petulant instead.

“As if I’d let you.”

“I mean—damn it, Omi,” Atsumu says, tamping down a spike of genuine anger. “I ain’t gonna try’n touch you. All those times in practice—it’s just—”

Words fail him. Words— _words_ —fail him— _him_ , Miya Atsumu—words, the words—the word? It's just a word! It's not coming—

“Instinct.”

“Yes." Fuck. "That.”

Omi hesitates. Omi calculates. Omi may choose to abandon all hope at this effort. When Omi decides to proceed—indicated by a breath, indicated by the slight release of tension from his shoulders—Atsumu feels proud, if only for a moment, and then he feels like an idiot, because of course—

“Start with your socks.”

—Omi will not make this easy. In the exact instant Atsumu lifts a leg, he knows he should’ve known better than to think this would be straightforward.

"Stop," Omi snaps. Atsumu thinks he sounds more frantic than angry. He puts his foot down as gently as he can.

“Do not," Omi begins. "I repeat: Do not under any circumstances touch your bare feet.”

“But the socks’ve touched the floor!”

“My floor is cleaner than your disgusting feet, even if you’ve showered.”

Atsumu frowns, but proceeds. He pinches the toe of a sock and pulls, carefully, flexing his foot so the fabric slides off. He deposits it in the plastic bag, then proceeds with the other.

“Next, your shirt.”

“Is there a certain way you’d like me to remove it, your highness?”

Amazingly, there isn’t. Atsumu shucks the shirt, then his pants, balling them up to shove into the plastic bag, which Omi is now eyeing like some sort of nuclear contamination site. Atsumu doesn’t know if it’s comforting or mortifying that Omi doesn’t spare his naked body a second glance. Fuck, he ate a lotta carbs today. No—no. This is fine. Everything is fine. Besides, the train of thought is derailed completely when Omi shoves his bulk-sized carton of disinfectant wipes in Atsumu’s face.

“Wipe down.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? No wait, don’t answer that.”

“You agreed to follow my rules.”

“I told you not to answer it. You gonna help?”

Of course, Omi does not help. Omi leans against the wall, his hands tucked in his pockets, and watches. It takes five wipes before Omi is convinced that Atsumu is totally disinfected. Atsumu finds himself feeling strangely proud. Four would have been unacceptable. Maybe next time he can get up to six. Even seven. He can drive Omi into bankruptcy through nudity and disinfecting wipes alone.

“Lie down on your back,” Omi says once Atsumu shoves the wipes into the second plastic bag. “Hands behind your head.”

Atsumu lowers himself onto the futon. He’s glad a lifetime of Osamu tricking him into running naked out of just about any bath room they’ve used has eliminated any ounce of shame he might harbor about his body. Carbs be damned. Of course, it helps that he’s fucking hot. And that he totally has no anxiety about Omi at all. That he totally doesn’t care that Omi’s expression hasn’t changed at all. That he totally, one hundred percent, cross-his-heart-swear-to-die does not have any skin in the game of getting Sakusa Kiyoomi to admit that he might, perhaps, possibly, maybe be attracted to Atsumu.

“Stop thinking.”

“How d’you expect me to do that?”

“Stop thinking. Just lie there and do not. Under any circumstances. Move.”

Atsumu tamps down the automatic response— _or what_ —because he knows the answer: If Atsumu moves, Omi will leave without a second thought, will leave without even telling Atsumu to go as well, will leave Atsumu to retreat like a kicked puppy or a wet dog or some miserable creature that Omi wouldn’t even deign to pity, because Omi doesn’t have a pitying bone in his body, just contemptuous and disgusted and assholish ones, which happen also to be bones that somehow Atsumu has found himself digging for more often than not. But anyway, Atsumu wouldn’t care if Omi left. Really. He just doesn’t want to be treated like a goddamn pathetic animal.

So Atsumu keeps still and waits. He wills every muscle in his body to _be still, goddammit,_ and waits. He waits so long it’s painful, though he doesn’t know if he’s in actual pain or if it’s just his brain pinballing through anticipation. He also doesn’t know if Omi has moved. He doesn’t know if he wants to know if Omi has moved. Which is to say, he’s afraid to look away from the ceiling. To be fair, it’s a nice ceiling. Wood paneled and clean. Could probably lick it and only taste pine. Could probably convince a pro-chef to serve a whole sushi meal on it. He tells himself he’s observing. Omi may quiz him on the pattern later. On the symmetry. No, no, he’s not afraid to look away from the fingerprint grain, which is blurring with the intensity of his focus. Okay, fine—he’s afraid to even blink. Maybe Omi’s like a stray cat who’ll only come when it thinks it hasn’t been seen. Maybe. Atsumu decides he doesn’t want him. His erection argues otherwise. And then—

“I fail to see why anyone finds this stimulating.”

—Atsumu’s soul exits his body in a decidedly different way than desired. He props himself up on his elbows and sends Omi, who is still leaning against the wall with his hands tucked neatly behind his back, the most baleful look he can muster. 

“Omi, y’just can’t say things like that!”

“You keep saying that.”

“‘Cus you keep sayin’ things that make me want to shrivel up and die!”

“It would make my life easier if you would.”

“Omi!”

“Lie back down. And close your eyes. I’m not lending you any drops just because you’re a moron who refuses to blink.”

“Y’said not to move,” Atsumu mutters, but he complies. Moments later, he hears the swish of fabric before a blanket is unfurled over him, up to his chin. He feels Omi smooth out the ends, pull the edges to cover his feet. The fastidiousness is strangely erotic. Atsumu wonders what that says about him.

When a weight settles on either side of him, Atsumu holds his breath with the expectation that a body will descend upon his. Of course, the contact doesn’t come. Omi’s knees do not even touch Atsumu’s sides—he must be straddling Atsumu, must be doing all he can to keep their bodies absolutely separate. Atsumu wants to open his eyes. He wants to see himself being seen. The look on Omi’s face. But the thought scares him, too. What if Omi’s expression hasn’t changed at all? 

A hand presses into his abs and derails all fear and thought. Atsumu tenses, and the movement must startle Omi, because the hand is removed. Before Atsumu can apologize, the hand returns, ghosting up to his chest, then down his side before returning to settle on his stomach once more. The pressure increases. Atsumu sucks in a breath, then panics at the rise of his chest. 

Omi and Atsumu speak and stop in unison: “Don’t—” 

The silence returns. The hand remains. Atsumu wonders if this is how a haunted person feels. He briefly entertains the idea that Sakusa Kiyoomi is a grudge sent to torture him. Or at least he thinks it’s brief—to be honest, Atsumu is not sure how much time passes. He bites his cheek between his teeth. He sucks his tongue. He curls his toes with the effort of letting time wash over him. His attention narrows to the point where Omi not-quite touches him through the blanket. Then, to two more points—the subtle shift of Omi moving his knees closer to Atsumu’s sides. He thinks that Omi may be shaking. Omi is definitely shaking. Atsumu feels the tremor in his wrist. The tension in his thighs. Atsumu has never considered the idea that Omi could be scared. He refuses to start.

When Atsumu dares open his eyes, he finds Omi’s are closed, his chin tucked into his chest, his free hand bunched around the loose fabric at the crotch of his sweats. His breathing is quiet but uneven, and Atsumu wonders how much effort that takes, how much effort it takes for Omi not to high-tail back into himself for forever and a day. And then, when Omi’s free hand flexes, Atsumu wonders if Omi is hard. Fuck, he hopes Omi is hard. The hand flexes again, the movement accompanied by a shuddering breath. Atsumu wants to bring his hands to Omi’s hips and grind, and then he immediately wants to not want that at all. He wants to want this. He wants this to be enough. The fall of Omi’s hair, the whisper shake of his breathing, the pressure of his hand increasing along with the tension in his shoulders—

“Y’don’t hafta push yourself,” Atsumu says as quietly as he can manage. Then, louder: “There’s only room enough for one pushy asshole around here.”

Omi opens his eyes. He does not chastise Atsumu for failing to follow directions. He just extricates himself, a feline fleeing the sudden panic of a not-undesirable situation, and stands, smoothing down the front of his shirt and sweats. When he pushes his hair out of his face, Atsumu can see the sheen of sweat across his forehead. He tells himself under no circumstances would he ever want to lick it. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he wants to lick it.

“Please leave.”

Atsumu dresses and goes. 

🤷🤷🤷

On the walk home, Atsumu remembers: There is a world. There is a world outside the clean lines and bare surfaces of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s microcosm. There is a world in which people touch each other without thinking and interact without navigating ulterior motives. Speaking of which—he checks his phone. There are no less than three voicemails from Osamu. This is not a surprise. The phone doesn’t ring once before Osamu answers.

“The fuck took you so long?” 

“Was hangin’ out with Omi,” Atsumu replies.

“Still convinced that guy might be human?”

“I know, I know, y’think he’s an asshole. You’ve told me. Why’d you need me to call?”

“Shouyou told me you’re feeling off.”

“Everything’s fine.”

Osamu grunts, which doesn't necessarily mean that he thinks Atsumu is lying. Maybe Osamu has indigestion. Maybe there's one of Suna's ridiculous hairs stuck in his throat. Maybe he's coming down with a cold. Unseasonal, sure, but—

“So that’s why yer hangin’ out with Kiyoomi instead of normal people who treat each other with dignity and respect."

"Those kinda people are boring, Samu," Atsumu sings. "You should know. You're one of 'em."

"I thought I raised you better,” says the brother who gave up a promising volleyball career to sell pieces of food enjoyed largely because they are easy to make and reliably use leftovers that would not otherwise be eaten.

“Get off your high horse, you lowlife. Omi ain’t any weirder than the rest of us.”

“He doesn’t like onigiri," Osamu counters. "What the hell kind of person doesn’t like onigiri?”

“I’ve told ya, Samu, it’s the hands. He doesn’t like anythin’ to do with hands.”

“An’ I’m sayin’ that’s the point, Tsumu! The hands’re what makes it a comfort food! Like yer granny made it jus’ fer you!”

“Y’know,” Atsumu wonders, “I dunno that Omi has a granny.”

“Everyone’s got a granny, ya dumbass.”

“Maybe not like we do.”

"Know who definitely has a granny? Shouyou."

Osamu isn't wrong. Atsumu has heard Shouyou talk about said woman before. The nabeyaki udon she makes in the wintertime. The times she's made soba by hand. It sounds nice, really, sittin' round the dinner table with the Hinatas. Atsumu sits with the fact that something sounding nice does not cause anything in his chest to ache.

“Why can’cha just hang out with him?” Osamu asks the quiet.

And really, Atsumu doesn’t have an answer, because the entire night has dawned on him and—

"I gotta go," he says. "I gotta go."

—what the fuck just happened?


	2. “Tell me what you think about when you masturbate.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, as much as Atsumu’s been thinking about Omi while jacking off, he hasn’t really considered Omi himself jacking off. The guy’s a perpetual mystery wrapped in a fully zipped jacket wrapped in a facemask wrapped in an enigma. To further complicate the picture, self-indulgence and Omi have never crossed paths in Atsumu’s mind. Guy probably jerks off in the most joyless three minute sprint ever, hunched over his bathroom sink trying not to touch anything. But all that skin. The legs. Atsumu accepts the argument. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, bc i just can't. Feel free to tell me where there are errors/awkward sentences.
> 
> Omiomiomiomiomi will forever and always come from [Bree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy).

Miya Atsumu is no stranger to sex and desire and all the intricate bullshit that lies therein. He’s had sex with guys, with girls—hell, there was even that cosplayer once who liked to dress up as both (neither?), depending on her mood. Atsumu’s fucked in beds and futons and closets and bathrooms. Made out in clubrooms, on roofs, by rivers. He even managed to break into the storage room for an intimate session with his hand during a summer training camp once, though Osamu never believed him. And it hasn’t all been physical. Atsumu’s had his heart broken, too—exactly once, when the meanest girl in school refused to step on him (just for a minute, nothing big!) in the combat boots he knew she owned when his back hurt after practice for a week straight and he couldn’t stop thinking of getting trampled into a pulp. That was a weird one, Osamu informed him. You can’t just ask people things like that, Osamu said. But Atsumu knew not to listen. Osamu liked words like “invested” and “settle down” and “be there for each other.” Still does. Atsumu doesn’t even know if Osamu’s had penetrative sex, and, well, if he has, missionary is for sure the only thing on the table, the table being too racy to probably even mention, and whoa—whoa. Miya Atsumu does not need think about his brother’s sex life in that much detail, absolutely not, no siree, no thank you, not now not ever.

Anyway, the point is: Miya Atsumu has had sex of varying degrees in various places with various kinds of people, and for the most part, he has enjoyed the experiences, and for the most part, he does not expect his brother to understand this part of his life. What Miya Atsumu has not had (though he still would not expect Osamu to have a shred of sympathy for this situation either) is a nude encounter with a non-nude teammate in a situation that felt at the same time as sexually charged as a lightning storm and like being asked to donate sperm in the back corner of a morgue with some 100¥ lotion and a corpse of middling attractiveness.

Until, that is, now. Which is all an elaborate way of saying that Miya Atsumu, sex god, comedy genius, volleyball stud, has found himself rather stumped.

For two weeks following said situation, Atsumu considers his options. He considers them when he’s lifting weights in the gym. He considers them when he’s standing in line at the convenience store. He considers them when he’s staring out the window of the bus and ignoring the peaceful expression on Bokuto’s face as he sleeps, blissfully unaware of the turmoil and tumult that could be (purely hypothetical; Atsumu takes pains to emphasize this to himself) roiling like an out-of-date conbini lunch in Atsumu’s gut.

He considers them whenever he has to watch Omi toss a ball between his giant spider hands before a practice serve. He considers them when he pointedly avoids Omi after practice by going straight home. He considers them when he sits down at his too-small table in his too-small apartment one night to write them out, letter-by-letter, one through five, as if that will somehow excise the problem they are attached to from his brain. Atsumu considers his options and thinks he could weep.

OPTION 1: Never speak to Omi again.

OPTION 2: Lick Omi’s face until he falls into a fugue state.

OPTION 3: Act like nothing happened.

OPTION 4: Submit Omi for psychological evaluation.

OPTION 5: Submit himself for psychological evaluation.

And Atsumu. Poor Atsumu. How far he’s fallen. Because he always, always, always goes with Option 6—unwritten, unspoken, unacknowledged, even to himself, for the most part. Option 6 involves slinking to his bed or the showers or a bathroom with a lockable door at the earliest convenient moment and jacking off, mortified, to the memory of Omi straddling him, fully clothed, eyes closed, gripping the crotch of his pants. The first time this happens, Atsumu lies on his bed with jizz all over his hand for what has to be ten minutes, staring up at the ceiling and imploring the hand of Kita or God or hell, even Osamu, to just reach down and strangle him, because what the fuck? 

After what he’s just done has sunk in and dried on his skin, Atsumu panics—not over the weirdness of getting off to his wing spiker or the decided departure from his usual fantasies of martial artists wrapping their thighs around his head (though rest assured, he does eventually panic about that), but because the spunk on his hand has dried, and he is consumed with the need (as he will be every time this happens) to wash it off. 

😷😷😷

“D’you think germaphobia’s contagious?” Atsumu asks Bokuto after practice one day while pondering his new reality. Really, the fact that he asks Bokuto is mere coincidence; they just both happen to be guzzling water at the edge of the practice gym when the thought strikes, and Atsumu has never been known for his brain-to-mouth filter. Bokuto, of course, responds by looking like he has just been informed that the entire V.League is coming to an end. Atsumu realizes that he should have realized that saying anything to Bokuto ever at all was and always is and always will be a mistake. 

“Why??” Bokuto demands, both laser-focused and innocent. “Did Omi cough on you??? Is he okay???? Should we be worried????? Should I call the team doctor?????? Do you think we should—”

Atsumu snaps his towel off his neck and glowers, because good grief, one silly question should not incite a fucking code red medical event, especially for someone as dour and despicable and irrationally hygenic as Sakusa Kiyoomi. “Forget I said anything, you dumbass. Omi is fine.” 

“And why wouldn’t I be fine?” 

Atsumu flinches. He would’ve sworn on his right hand that Omi had already disappeared to the locker room. But here he is, still dressed in his practice gear and decidedly sweaty, a ball held between his freaky rebar fingers. Atsumu decides the best escape route is to throw a hissy fit, which is to say, he throws his sweaty towel in Bokuto’s face.

“Dammit, Bo.”

“What!?”

“Yes, Miya,” Omi says. “What.”

“Your goddamn mouth is too big,” Atsumu mutters. He figures now’s as good a time as any to make his retreat, so he sulks toward the locker room.

“You’re so mean,” Bokuto whines after him. “This is why I told Akaashi you’re on edge.” 

Atsumu whips back. “Stop talkin’ to your boyfriend ‘bout me.”

“Miya is scared of Akaashi,” Omi informs Bokuto, whose bewilderment immediately shoots through the roof with the power of a tractor beam.

“No m’not!” Atsumu insists right as Bokuto wonders: “Why would anyone ever be scared of Akaashi?”

“Because he’s psychic, y’nimrod!” Atsumu snaps. 

“So you are scared of Akaashi,” Omi says. He looks like he just picked up a particularly nasty point or, hell, carried a whole game on his back, his face contorting into what a reasonably discerning person with a fair amount of generosity toward the undersocialized might call a smirk. Omi then walks toward the locker room, passing close enough to Atsumu that Atsumu—whose eye is absolutely not twitching, he will swear on his life and his next meal and his brother’s stupid business making rice balls that everyone’ll just complain don’t taste like their mom’s—almost expects Omi to reach out and pat him on the shoulder. But of course Omi doesn’t. He just leaves Atsumu to drown in his own conniption fit, unbothered, and Bokuto to gape after him like a particularly spiky fish.

😷😷😷

Atsumu spends at least thirty minutes in the team shower cursing his general existence and the fact that he inhabits a timeline in which Bokuto is simultaneously insufferable, dating a psychic, and on the same team as him. Atsumu does not under any circumstances critically examine the content of his irritation. He does not even acknowledge it has content to begin with. His irritation is a balloon, a croissant, something airy and light and totally devourable. He vaguely registers that he might be hungry. 

Thirty minutes is long enough for the rest of the team to come and go. It’s long enough for someone to mistakenly call out _don’t drown yourself, Omi!_ when they leave. It’s long enough, Atsumu hopes, for Omi to have actually left. God, he fucking hopes Omi has left. He dries himself as thoroughly as possible and dresses with uncharacteristic care, making as much noise as he can in the process. He’s always figured Omi was a cat, at heart: Clean and self-contained and scared of loud noises.

Of course, cats are also experts at popping up right where you don’t want them. While Omi is not in the locker and not in the gym when Atsumu leaves, he is sitting on a bench just outside the gym, in a pair of too-big sweats with still-wet hair. The bench is the same one Atsumu has waited for Omi on so many times before. The switch up feels like a personal attack.

“Don’t you got something to go clean,” Atsumu grumbles as he passes. Atsumu’s refusal to stop does not phase Omi; he merely gets up and follows, then falls in line with Atsumu’s steps. Damn giants and their beanstalk legs. 

“Very clever,” Omi replies. The sarcasm is implied even though Omi’s tone is about as flat as a rice paddy. “Actually, I have a question for you.”

“Then ask it, why don’cha, and leave me alone.”

Omi sighs. Gathering his thoughts, probably. Atsumu still takes offense. Then: “I want to know what you think about when you masturbate.”

During the silence that passes, a thousand very bad ideas fight to get out of Atsumu’s mouth, from _is it weird to say that I’ve been getting off to you?_ to _what the fuck is wrong with you?_ For once, Atsumu has the wherewithal to keep them, if not buried deep, at least underneath the surface. The bad news is that this means Atsumu cannot say anything at all, lest one ( _are you afraid of your own cum???_ , for example, which, he thinks, is a valid question, but still, maybe not the wisest reply) breaks free.

To be honest, as much as Atsumu’s been thinking about Omi while jacking off, he hasn’t really considered Omi himself jacking off. The guy’s a perpetual mystery wrapped in a fully zipped jacket wrapped in a facemask wrapped in an enigma. To further complicate the picture, self-indulgence and Omi have never crossed paths in Atsumu’s mind. Guy probably jerks off in the most joyless three minute sprint ever, hunched over his bathroom sink trying not to touch anything. But all that skin. The legs. Atsumu accepts the argument. 

Eventually, Atsumu’s panic offers: “Geez, Omi, way to put a guy under pressure.”

“I never would have guessed you’d have performance issues,” Omi replies. 

“Oh, fuck you.”

“They make pills for that sort of thing, I think,” Omi says. He has the gall to try and sound sincerely concerned. 

By now, they’ve made it to the station. Instead of entering and forgetting that this ever happened, Atsumu lingers, looking decidedly down, then up and away. He does not want to consider Omi’s still-wet hair, which is beginning to curl as it dries. He does not want to consider the way Omi’s eyes look patient and calm above his facemask despite his usual snark. He does not want to consider that by standing here, Omi is calling his bluff. Considering any of this would mean considering that maybe, just maybe, Atsumu finds something about the trainwreck mess of bones and anxiety in front of him comforting. Like wanting to spoon a triangle with teeth. 

“I wanna watch you touch yourself,” Atsumu spits, because apparently, he hates himself. It’s not an answer to the question Omi asked. And neither is it a comeback. He’s mad at himself, and he sounds it, and Omi knows, now Omi knows. Omi knows that Atsumu’s been thinking about him in a way that’s not spiteful or hateful or mean. Atsumu wants to lie down on the cold concrete and wait for the next bike that passes. 

“You’re not very subtle,” Omi mutters. Then he turns and walks and throws over his shoulder: “Come home with me.”

Atsumu follows like a dog. 

😷😷😷

“Wipes or shower?” Atsumu asks as he undoes his shoes in Omi’s genkan. In his awkward rush, his bag falls off his shoulder and spills clothes and towels and pills and knee pads and wrappers over the floor. Omi looks at him like a peasant.

The answer, of course, is both, and only after he cleans up the mess. As Atsumu shoves his dirty, chaotic life back into his duffle, Omi disappears and re-emerges with a stack of clean clothes. He sets them on the couch. 

“For after,” he says. “I’ll be waiting in my room.”

As Atsumu showers, making sure to scrub his nails and behind his ears and between his toes with the various tools that now live in a plastic bin labeled MIYA, he decides the feeling in his gut is the same he gets when he goes in for his physical exam every year before the start of the season. He half expects Omi to unfurl a paper gown when he waltzes, hair dripping, into Omi’s room, which is just as spartan and depressing as before. The only difference is that there’s a towel laid out on the floor, a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube and a box of nitrile gloves arranged at right-angles in one corner. Omi sits in a dining chair, legs and arms primly crossed and efficiently closing him off from the spectacle which is about to unfold. 

“M’guessin’ you that’s where y’want me?” Atsumu asks, gesturing at the floor. 

“Lose the towel first,” Omi says. 

“Are you gonna get undressed this time too?”

“If I feel like it.”

Atsumu heaves a big sigh. This is just like the time that he asked that one chick to let him watch her. Except the opposite. What has he told her then? It’ll be easy. Just pretend I’m not here. It’s no big deal. The smallest seed of guilt blooms in Atsumu’s sternum. 

Atsumu ditches the towel, which means he folds it up and deposits it in the hamper Omi has dragged out. Then, he puts his hands on his hips and considers: Should he lie down? Sit criss cross? He makes a show of his indecision, walking this way and that around the stage he has been given. He argues with the voice in his head telling him to shrivel up and die. 

“Just sit on your knees,” Omi says. He must know Atsumu is stalling. Atsumu turns and flashes Omi the sweetest poison smile he can muster. 

“Of course that’s where you’d want me.” 

Atsumu settles, knees pressed together at first. Then, he spreads them wide for stability and, he hopes, effect. He looks down at himself—abs, quads, pubic hair—to reduce the awkwardness building up in his chest. In a fit of self consciousness, he cups himself with a hand.

“Use that big mouth of yours and tell me what you’re thinking,” Omi gripes. 

“‘M thinkin’ it’s hot that you’re watchin’ me from a meter away fully clothed,” Atsumu replies with as much sarcasm as he can muster.

“I thought a narcissistic asshole like you would like being watched.”

“So you’re thinkin’ bout my asshole?”

Omi visibly recoils. “Disgusting. Absolutely not.”

Atsumu chuckles, because at least it’s still easy to goad Omi into being even more himself, nudity or none. Omi’s bluntness relaxes him. He sweeps his free hand through his hair, pushes the other one from limp dick to thigh to whisper his nails up and down the inside. 

“It’s’kay Omi, I won’t tell anyone you were havin’ impure thoughts.” Atsumu says this more for himself than anything. He repeats the move of nails up skin, harder now, and tightens the hand in his hair, coaxing himself into something nearing relaxation. Omi stays quiet, and when Atsumu closes his eyes, he can almost forget he’s not alone.

“Y’really wanna know what I think about when I jerk off?” Atsumu cracks open an eye. He can already see the response building behind Omi’s closed mouth. “That’s a rhetorical question. M’gonna tell you either way.” 

Atsumu moves his hand from his hair to his dick, palming himself before falling into short, loose strokes. His dick gives a twitch, which comes as a relief. At least he’s not going to make a total embarrassment of himself by not getting hard at all. He reaches to pull a condom close.

“I thinka your back,” Atsumu says. “Whether it’s got moles on it.”

“Ew, no. Stop.”

Atsumu’s eyes snap open. “What!?”

Omi crinkles his nose to an almost comical degree of disgust. “Are you trying to be flattering? That’s what you think of when you’re…” Omi gestures at Atsumu, a housewife waving at a mess she wants her made to clean up. “Don’t try to be nice. It’s weird.”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way.” Atsumu closes his eyes again and sidles a little deeper into his stance, lets his fingers dance up and down his still-soft dick again. He tries to call up the images he’s used to: That gymnast, from the bar. Akaashi’s friend. Could wrap her thighs around a tall beer and burst it. Thighs. Those thighs. Wrapped around his head. Totally immobilized. Hands in his hair. Not even naked, just two totally athletic humans fighting to the—oh shit. Right. The present. “I think about thighs,” Atsumu blurts. He immediately lowers his voice into what he hopes approaches a purr. “I like thighs. An’ legs. Y’know, y’got nice ones, Omi-yom.”

“Every volleyball player does.”

“Shuddup.”

“So you think about thighs.” Omi could really at least try to sound interested, but no, he sounds like he’s about to get an ingrown nail pulled out. “You’re really bad at this.”

“Says you. Now stop cuttin’ me off.” Atsumu wraps his hand around himself finally and jerks, quick light strokes that don’t do anything more than goad his body into interest. If he gets his breathing right, it’ll be easy, but first— “Th’insida mine’re always real sensitive an…” Atsumu demonstrates, raking the nails of his free hand up his thigh, pushing his fingers back into his taint. The pressure makes him hum. He repeats the motion a few times before rolling his balls between his fingers, tightening the grip of his strokes around his dick. He can finally feel himself filling out, finally feel the weight and warmth sinking in his stomach. His breath hitches and he lets out a sigh on instinct. “—’an I wonder whether touchin’ yours makes y’feel good. I wanna see what makes y’feel good.”

The happiest Atsumu’s seen Omi is when he gets to leave the gym before everyone has petered back into the locker room. There was also the time Omi got a room to himself for an away game, which Atsumu considered rude, because really, who could get beauty sleep when Hinata was tossing and turning and mumbling three feet away? The nerve of Omi to deny that at the very least, Atsumu can agree to shut the hell up after 11 o’clock, hell, he could even agree to take it upon himself to allow other people to shut him the hell up after 11 o’clock, say, with their mouths, though that’s a tall order, so even by admitting once—once!—that maybe Atsumu’s company isn’t so bad…

Atsumu twists his hand a particular way, catches the tip of himself between his thumb and forefinger. His train of thought is effectively tossed over a bridge into a never-ending abyss. He moans and reaches for the condom.

“Omi,” Atsumu breathes. “Does lookin’ at me like this make y’feel good?” Atsumu can’t help but open an eye to see Omi’s reaction. Omi, of course, looks like he would rather lick a gym floor clean than answer in the affirmative. He’s still sitting straight as a board in his chair, hands slammed into his pockets. Omi might even be biting the inside of his lip.

“C’mon, Omi-yom, live a little,” Atsumu teases. He doesn’t let up on the steady up-down-up-down of his fist, forefinger falling away as the heat-pinch-tension contracts. “I don’ think y’hate me as much as you try an’ let on.”

“What’s it to you whether I feel good.”

The way Omi delivers them—serious, removed. The words have a weight. Enough to make Atsumu wince and stop. 

“Geez, Omi, cut yourself a break,” he tries. “Y’always look so sour. Jus’ figure you deserve t’feel good too.”

“I feel perfectly good when I score more points than you.”

“You’re the absolute worst.”

Atsumu reaches for the lube, which is enough to send a look of analytic panic through Omi’s expression. Omi doesn’t move, though, just stays still and tense, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“Y’ever done this to yourself with those disgusting wrists of yours?” Atsumu asks as he spreads the stuff—good stuff, he notes—on his hand. He slowly presses a now-slick finger into himself, for his benefit more then Omi, then shudders and sighs to adjust.

“I don’t like the texture of lube on my fingers.” Omi sounds disgustingly unaroused.

“Why don’cha use a glove?”

Omi looks troubled. “I hadn’t considered it.”

And Atsumu can’t help but laugh, deep and genuine, the sound working his finger further into himself. He sighs and raises another finger to circle and probe. 

“Shut up.”

“M’sorry,” Atsumu says. “Jus’ in shock that y’almost admitted y’mighta been wrong.”

“Don’t stop.”

And Atsumu won’t disobey that, if the way his dick twitches is anything to go by. He pushes the second finger in and slouches into himself so he can push deeper, inching up and up, scissoring his fingers open and together and open again. He twists and curls, stroking at the edge of his prostate in time with the movement of his fist over his dick. It feels simultaneously like nothing and everything. 

“Feels good,” he breathes. “Feels real good, Omi-yom. Cain’t believe y’haven’t tried...”

“Your accent is terrible.”

“Gets tha’way when I’m—“ Atsumu adds a third, tightens his grip on his dick and swivels his hips as he makes room for himself within himself and presses up, looking for— “—when I’m—” —there. Atsumu’s hips twitch into his fist and he inhales, letting the breath go in what he refuses to acknowledge is a moan. “‘M focused on other things.”

Kiyoomi doesn't reply after that, so Atsumu closes his eyes again and curls his fingers again until he’s convinced he’s stroking every nerve ending in his body. His thighs twitch. His breath rattles. He would fall forward if he had any hands with which he could catch himself, but instead he stays bent between reaching back into himself and jerking up into his hand, the slow start giving way to a frighteningly fast build up. His brain flits through fantasy in pieces—the thought of sinking balls deep into someone, the catch of another’s teeth on his lip, the pained, private look on Omi’s face as he sat over Atsumu, entirely closed off and entirely too close all at the same time. 

Atsumu bucks his hips into his hands and opens his eyes enough to see Omi staring, analytic and engrossed but removed, directly at him. Atsumu has half a mind to ask Omi to touch him but— “K’yom—fuck—” 

“What?”

“M’close, y’idjit,” Atsumu snaps. A particularly ambitious thrust of his fingers sends him shuddering, his thighs trying desperately to twitch closed. “Whadd’ya want me to think of when I come?”

“Not spilling anything when you take the condom off.”

“Dammit, Omi—”

“It’s true.”

Atsumu slows for a moment. He can’t even bring himself to close his mouth as he looks heavily at Omi. “Y’like tellin’ me what to do don’cha?”

“...I suppose.”

“Then tell me when to come.”

And finally, finally, finally, Omi looks at him differently after that, his focus intensifying into curiosity instead of calculated disinterest and thinly veiled unease. Immediately, Atsumu likes the look of Omi with a task—the cut of his eyes and slouch of his shoulders toward the subject of consideration. Maybe Omi’ll be distracted long enough to forget to make fun of Atsumu later for the sounds he’s making. Maybe those sounds at least cover up the ridiculous squelch of his fingers pressing inside him. Maybe—no maybe. The anxieties dissipate as Atsumu gets back to pumping himself, works his fingers back in, lets himself go into the rhythm he sets, into the sound of his own skin-on-skin. As the pleasure running through him begins to tense, he tunes out from the raggedness of his breath, the harsh pants he's letting free. His strokes become firmer, faster, as his fingers hook at just the right angle; with each swipe of his hand, each press of his prostate, his shoulders cave in deeper and his thighs push wider and his pants get pulled into short bursts of gasp whose volume he cannot control, cannot think to control. Atsumu tells himself that all this sound and motion is because Omi is a prude who probably doesn't even know what to look for to keep a guy from shooting his load. He tells himself the tingle of anticipation running up his spine is what he usually feels when he jerks off at the end of the day. Not the strange sensation of being watched. He wants to like it. He wants Omi to like it. He hates this guy, but fuck if Atsumu doesn’t want to be wanted by him. Fuck if Atsumu hasn’t wanted to be wanted by anyone who has had the misfortune of stumbling into his world. Fuck if Omi is the only one who has seen fit not to care.

“Stop.”

Atsumu stops, half out of fear and half because Omi sounds breathless in a way Atsumu has never heard on the court. When Atsumu opens his eyes, Omi’s are closed. He’s snuck a hand down his pants, and his wrist pulls the fabric just enough to reveal a vanilla white slice of his hip. Atsumu wants to lick it. No—he wants to dream of licking it. Figures he’s less culpable that way, the unconscious being what it is and all. Figures he can forgive himself the indulgence. 

Even more importantly, Atsumu wants to see Omi’s hand, which is currently lost in his ridiculous over-sized sweats. Underneath the fabric, Atsumu can just barely make out the small up-and-down jerks. Then, Omi’s hips twitch, the movement decidedly uncalculated, and the head of his cock breaks free over the waistband. It's the single most unintentional thing Atsumu has ever seen Omi do, and it sends Atsumu scrambling to clutch the base of his dick. 

“Fuckin’ fuck, you’re hot,” he whispers, because he thinks he can get away with it. Omi looks a world away, his strokes getting long enough to dislodge his sweats even more but still not making it past the elastic. Enough to drive a guy nuts, if the sounds hadn’t already. Each pull of his hand pulls from him an increasingly unmeasured breath, his mouth dropping open and putting the full wet red of Omi’s tongue on display.

“Hey, Omi,” Atsumu says, louder, and the frown on Omi’s face as he continues to fuck awkwardly into his hand—a frown that says loud and clear _I am ignoring you_ —compels him— “Omiomiomiomiomiomiomi—”

“What—”

Omi must mean for the word to come out irate, but it comes out broken and deep and hitched and Atsumu takes it in like a victory, fingers still wrapped tight around the base of his dick because, fuck, any stray sound or movement or sigh could be the end of him. Omi has gone still, but he has yet to open his eyes and his hand—that fucking hand—has pushed low, pushed his sweatpants low, pushed his dick up high and bared against the bare plane of his stomach, and fuck, Atsumu should not think about licking—you shouldn’t dream of cake you can’t have or eat, too—that’s the saying, he’s sure of it—this train of thought is notgoodnotgoodnotgood—

“What’re you thinkin’?” he blurts.

Omi tenses. More importantly, Omi’s dick twitches. Sakusa Kiyoomi’s dick twitches at the sound of Atsumu’s voice. Sure, dicks just twitch of their own accord, but Atsumu decides this is a tell. Atsumu decides this is a fact he will use against Omi in the not-near-but-not-distant future.

“C’mon,” he teases, empowered by this small and unconscious reaction. “You’re never usually embarrassed to say. Y’thinkin’ bout how sexy I am???”

Atsumu expects sass. He expects salt—an entire container of it, really, poured straight onto his dick. He braces himself, finds the anticipation is enough that he can loosen his fingers from their vice grip. And then, Omi says, eyes still slammed close: “Maybe I was until you opened your mouth and reminded me you’re a moron. Hand me a condom.”

Atsumu removes his fingers from his ass and uses them to throw a condom at Omi’s face. It’s such a visceral reaction he does not even think about what he’s done until the foil packet is flying through the air. He expects to be punched right then and there, or at least kicked out, but Omi’s eyes are closed, and Omi isn’t spitting fire, and Omi is tearing open the packet with the tippytips of his finger and extracting, slowly the stupid yellow circle, and Atsumu lets out of a breath, because his life is not in danger, and then Atsumu lets out a breath, because Omi shimmies his sweatpants lower. The movement is practical, not suggestive, but it still unfurls a whole new realm of skin for Atsumu to optically devour, and even though Omi does not push his pants past his mid thighs, Atsumu can still see that he is clean shaven and pale. There is even a scar on Omi’s hip that Atsumu decides he wants to scratch open anew. 

“Ok,” Omi says once the condom is on. His hand is back on himself, his other spread wide across his stomach. At least Atsumu knows Omi hasn’t forgotten about him. He hopes.

“Ok?”

“Come whenever you want.”

It’s a little boring, sure, but Atsumu doesn’t need to be told twice. It’s easier than ever to work himself back to the edge, what with an increasingly writhing, increasingly naked Omi stretched out in front of him. Even Omi’s thighs twitch as he jerks himself faster; even Omi’s breaths turn into quiet, hungry sounds as he loses himself. Even Omi, Atsumu is happy to see, is human, and the sight is something that he never could have dreamt up on his own, even if he’s seen more orgasms than he can count on two hands. 

Atsumu’s breakpoint comes when Omi slouches forward, his free hand clutching at the edge of his chair and hair falling to obscure his face from view. But nothing can obscure the urgency of his gasps and the curl of his toes in his socks. Atsumu yanks his hand out of himself and falls forward onto it, thrusting into his hand as well as he can until he’s a groaning, twitching mess, shooting off into latex like he hasn’t since he was fourteen. His thighs ache and his stomach feels on fire and empty. 

“Wanna see you come, too,” he mutters. He manages to look up as Omi comes, beautiful and contained, not a drop spilling out from the confines he has erected for himself. And all the same, Atsumu feels like they’ve both come a little undone. 

😷😷😷

“It got pretty late,” Omi says—grimaces, really—when Atsumu emerges from his third shower of the night. This is after Omi upbraids him for failing to use the gloves so kindly and obviously left out for him before sticking his hand up his ass. This is after Atsumu suggests that, well, technically, it wasn’t his hand. This is after Atsumu is commanded to sanitize the floor underneath his towel as punishment while Omi danced his own 30-minute cleansing ritual of scrubs and creams and washes. Funnily enough, Omi has not only pinned his hair away from his face, but also pushed a headband up over half his head. Atsumu almost makes a joke about an avocado mask and cucumber eye patches before the unexpected suggestion comes.

Atsumu squints at the microwave clock. It’s well past the last train. “I can walk back jus’ fine.”

“Just stay,” Omi mutters, already disappearing into his room. “I’ll put out the futon.”

“Not afraid I’ll snore germs into your bubble?”

Omi emerges again, this time to give Atsumu a careful look. Like he’s assessing something. Atsumu is dimly aware that his words may have sounded like mockery. He is dimly aware that if such a misunderstanding has occurred, he should apologize. His brain at least begins to think of how it might go about doing such a Herculean task.

But then, Omi drones: “Ear plugs. Eye mask. Face mask. Big fan dulled.” And he disappears back into his room. 

“You’re a big fan of what now?”

“Besides, I'll burn the futon in the morning.”

“Hey! No you won’t!”

And that is how Atsumu finds himself, against all odds, asleep (or at least, trying to sleep) in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s dark room, after, of all things, jacking off together with less than a meter separating them. All in all, Atsumu tells himself, a solid day. Eight out of ten. Could’ve been made better with a conbini meal and a beer, maybe, but beggars can’t be choosers. Really, the most disappointing thing is that he can’t see Omi’s ceiling, though that’s probably good, because at this point it might turn him on.

“Hey, Omi,” he asks after some unspecified amount of time. His brain is still firing on all cylinders.

Surprisingly, Atsumu hears the shift of fabric from somewhere above him.

“What?”

Atsumu turns. This way, he can see the black lump that is Omi against the dark gray of the wall. It’s always surprised him how dark things are, even in the city. How quiet, too, with the way Omi’s building stretches back to put the apartments away from the street. 

“Miya.”

“I just was wonderin’. D’you have a granny?”

The black lump sits up, a looming Omi-shaped tower. He’s less scary this way, really. The opposite of a monster. 

“Why are you asking me that?” 

“‘Cus I don’t know the answer, duh.” 

“I meant why are you asking me that now.”

“Oh,” Atsumu says. “A guy should know whether the guy he’s been jerkin’ off to has a granny. It’s just polite.”

Potentially implying that he thinks about Omi only while masturbating, Atsumu decides, is better than implying that Atsumu thinks regularly about Omi and the unknown details of his life (Are croissants too messy for him to enjoy? How does he get to Costco? If he has a car, will he give Atsumu a ride? Even if Atsumu doesn’t really know where he wants to go?), without prompting. 

Omi stays silent for a moment. Atsumu wonders if he’s biting the inside of his lip. “Since when have you ever cared about being polite.”

“Fuck, Omi,” Atsumu bitches. He turns and sulks, his back to the bed. “I jus’ want to know you better, is that so wrong?”

When Omi speaks next, it’s with the enthusiasm of someone declaring a time of death. “...I’ve never been close to any family except for my father. One of my grandmothers died before I was born. The other has been sick in some way or another my entire life. Before I had problems going to see her, she tended only to talk to her pills and tell stories about people she didn’t think existed and insult my mother for being dead. I haven’t seen her for a while.” Omi pauses, and Atsumu has a feeling that Omi himself doesn’t quite understand words he has just spoken. Before he can form a question, though, Omi continues: “So yes, of course I have a grandmother, but also no, I do not.”

“Huh,” Atsumu huffs. He is immediately embarrassed that more words do not magically follow, but he cannot come up with the words that might begin to constitute an appropriate response.

“Miya.”

“Yeah?”

“Earlier. Why didn’t you tell me you want to touch me.”

“Why?” Atsumu echoes. “Well, ‘cus y’wouldn’t like it.”

“Don’t be conscientious of my preferences,” Omi sniffs. “It’s disturbing.”

“Omi!” 

“I just mean it’s not like you. Besides, normal people want to touch people they’re attracted to.”

Atsumu twists in his futon to rebut this insult. “Y’think I’m normal?”

“So you’re not denying that you’re attracted to me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, trying to put on the most dignified and serious voice he can muster. “I swear on a scout’s honor—”

“Like they let you in.”

“Shuddup. I swear on a rejected scout’s honor—”

“Better.”

“—that I do not find you—the meanest, coldest, rudest guy I’ve ever played volleyball with—attractive in the slightest. Hell, I haven’t even seen enough of you to begin to fathom what I could find attractive. ‘Cos your personality is ‘bout as pleasant as stickin’ your head in a sack fulla bees.”

And Omi laughs. No more than a puff of breath, really. Atsumu can only hear the intonation behind it because of the silence that fills the room. Atsumu immediately wants to eat the sound. He wants to destroy it before it can destroy him.

“Likewise. Now go to sleep.”

After another indescribable span of time, during which Miya cannot tear his eyes away from Omi’s ceiling, as if willing it to combust into flames for a reason which Atsumu, like all emotions that roll through his inner life, does not want to examine, Omi speaks again: “Miya.”

This time, Omi’s voice is small, as if he wants to give Atsumu an excuse to ignore him. Atsumu is offended that Omi would ever think him so kind.

“I thought I was s’posed to be sleepin’.”

“If you’re going to be like that—“

“No, no, I wanna know. I’m awake, I swear.” Atsumu sits up in his futon.

“Do,” Omi begins. He takes a breath. “Do you want me to touch you? Don’t lie.”

“I mean, only if you want to.”

“Then get up here and hold out your hand.”

Atsumu does not have to be asked twice. He scrambles as neatly as he can onto the bed, being careful not to touch Omi even though he has retracted himself into a ball of a person at the head. Now that his eyes have adjusted, he can at least see the details of Omi against his outline: The dark eyes and curled hair and decided downward bow of his lips. Atsumu holds out his hand, willing himself to remember the time when he was young in the woods with his granny and Osamu and came upon a doe and her fawn. She had walked right up to Samu, of course, he was so quiet and still. Samu had reached out his hand and touched her muzzle, which looked so soft Atsumu hoped it could burst into cloud. He wanted to know—he wanted to know!—but he moved and saw the doe did not care about such wanting.

So now, Atsumu holds out his hand and waits and wills himself not to want, even though that’s the only thing he has ever been able to do, in volleyball and improvement and popularity and cool. 

And then, in the dark, Omi reaches out, too. He drags the back of his fingers up Atsumu’s wrist, then across the soft skin at the bend of his elbow. Omi lets his palm rest against Atsumu’s bicep, runs his nails down the back of his arm, loops forefinger and thumb loosely around Atsumu’s wrist. Omi’s hands are bigger than his, Atsumu is sure. Atsumu wants to press their palms together. He wants to press their palms together and say something stupid like—you know what that means. He wants to press their palms together and see Omi’s face. 

Instead, Atsumu settles with staring helplessly through the darkness and turning his hand to face palm up. He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding when Omi doesn't flinch away. Omi pools the tips of his fingers in the center of Atsumu’s open hand. In a moment of daring, Atsumu lets his own fingers fall closed, tries to imagine they are made of paper or petals or rainfall. Whatever might be soft and unthreatening and desirable. Something unlike what he has ever wanted to be. 

“What’re you thinkin’?” he whispers. The words are uneven ground.

“That for someone so abrasive, your hands are surprisingly soft.”

This is neither insult nor flattery—it is merely fact. Atsumu smiles, and he’s glad Omi cannot see him. “Gotta take good care of ‘em to set for you monsters.”

There’s a puff again—a puff that Atsumu can now recognize as Omi’s laugh. How many times has Atsumu missed it on the court? His life is so loud. What room could there be for such a small thing? What room would he want to make? 

Without the sound, the silence presses in. Panic crawls up Atsumu’s spine. What is he doing here, alone in an apartment with a teammate he decided to hate on sight the first time they met nine, ten-odd years ago? That Atsumu would call him a fake, a sell out, a total sap, being pushed over by this high-maintenance, holier-than-thou prissypants. That Atsumu would cower and jeer. That Atsumu would—wait, this Atsumu has no time for other hims, because Omi is moving his hand again, dragging it up this Atsumu’s arm and across his collarbone, barely exposed by the loose neck of his shirt, to push flat on his chest. The feeling of Omi’s hand pressed flush against the center of him—Atsumu wants to take himself back and away from this person. He wants to take himself back and away without whatever he has been given. It hurts, he thinks, to be asked to consider this weight. It hurts to notice it’s there.

“Hey,” Atsumu says. “Omi-yom.”

“What.”

“You’re gonna hurt your shoulder if you lean over like that much longer.”

“...fuck you.”

Omi pulls his hand away, and Atsumu feels the air rush back in. Feels new and his own and as though he can convince himself he is unchanged. 

“M’serious! Just lookin’ out for you.”

Omi doesn’t reply.

😷😷😷

In the morning, Atsumu finds Omi not in his bed, but on the couch, a blanket tucked around him like a coffin and his gloved hands folded neatly over his chest. He wears his earplugs and not one, but two masks—one over his eyes, another over his mouth. The latter, Atsumu assumes, has somehow slipped down in the night, leaving Omi’s nose uncovered.

Watching Omi sleep leaves an unpleasant taste in Atsumu’s mouth. Like the time Osamu breaded and fried a sponge, then claimed it was a pork cutlet sandwich that he was too lazy to cut in half. Atsumu craved the real thing all day after biting into that goddamn disgusting concoction—and yet, when he finally got his hands on one, he could not help but hesitate. Atsumu resists the urge to rush to Omi’s bathroom and gargle mouthwash and flush his eyes and scrub his skin raw. He resists the urge to do the opposite of vomit. He can’t bear the thought of what else could be fighting to crawl out of or into or over him. 

Instead, he grabs his things and leaves. 


End file.
